**Diary Entry – Summer with Mother-in-Law**
“Charlotte, love, what if I stayed with you for the summer?” Mum asked, drying her hands on a tea towel. “The flat upstairs had a leak, and now the whole place needs repairs. The builders say it won’t be done before autumn.”
I froze, the ladle hovering over the pot of beef stew. A whole summer with my mother-in-law? Three months under one roof? In my head, I ticked through the children’s school holidays, my husband’s leave, weekend trips to the countryside—and now, Margaret hovering over us all with her opinions, advice, and that pinched look of disapproval.
“Of course, Mum,” I heard myself say. “You’re welcome to stay. Where else would you go?”
“Lovely!” she beamed. “I won’t be a burden—I’ll help! The children could use another pair of eyes on them. James is always at the office, and you’re run ragged with them alone.”
James *did* work late, but I managed just fine with ten-year-old Oliver and seven-year-old Amelia. At least, I had—until Margaret arrived with her own ideas of how things should be done.
By the next morning, she’d already begun “tidying up.” She rewashed every dish because, in her words, I didn’t rinse the detergent properly. She rearranged the fridge, insisting ham belonged on the top shelf, not “just anywhere.” Amelia’s toys were neatly packed away in the cupboard.
“Why leave clutter lying about?” she scolded when Amelia tearfully searched for her favourite doll. “Play with something, then put it back.”
I clenched my teeth, retrieving the toys while Amelia sniffled.
“Margaret, children should feel at home here,” I tried.
“At home doesn’t mean living like pigs,” she huffed. “In my day, children had manners.”
Oliver, overhearing, muttered something under his breath and slunk off to his room. He’d been avoiding her since she arrived, bristling every time she criticised his music being too loud, his gaming, or playing outside with his mates.
That evening, James came home exhausted. I’d just reheated his dinner when Margaret swooped in.
“James, you’re wasting away!” She piled his plate high with stew. “Charlotte’s feeding you nothing but ready meals. I’ll pop to the market tomorrow—proper meat, homemade pies—”
“Mum, don’t fuss,” James sighed, but she was already off.
“Don’t fuss? You’re my son! Look at this place—shirts unironed, socks with holes! A wife should take care of her husband.”
My blood boiled. I’d spent the day cleaning, cooking, shuttling the kids to school and clubs—and now this?
“I *do* take care of my family,” I said evenly. “Times have changed, Margaret.”
“Times change, but family doesn’t,” she sniffed.
James stayed silent, shovelling down stew. He never took sides—which infuriated me most.
A week in, tensions peaked. Margaret criticised everything—my cooking, parenting, housekeeping. She rose at dawn, clattering about to make breakfast “properly.” The kids complained she nagged them over how to hold a fork or chew.
“Maybe visit Aunt Lillian for a bit?” James suggested during another row.
“So I’m in the way?” Margaret snapped. “I’ve done nothing but help! Or is it *her*?” She jabbed a finger at me.
“We just have different ways,” I said carefully.
“Ah! So my ways aren’t good enough? And *James* turned out fine!”
“Enough, Mum,” James groaned.
“I want to know what I’ve done wrong!”
“You haven’t done anything wrong,” I lied through my teeth. “But families need boundaries.”
“Boundaries? For your own mother? What is the world coming to?”
Oliver and Amelia huddled in the corner, wide-eyed. They’d grown quieter, tiptoeing around her.
The next day, I sat them down.
“Baba’s weird,” Amelia confessed. “She says we’re rude.”
“She told me screens rot your brain,” Oliver added. “Says kids in her day played outside.”
“Baba’s just from a different time,” I said. “She loves you.”
“But I don’t like her,” Amelia whispered. “Can I eat in my room?”
My heart ached. This wasn’t our home anymore—just a place we shared with a stranger.
Margaret, meanwhile, kept “fixing” things. She rewashed towels (“They smell!”), scrubbed windows (“Streaks everywhere!”), and binned spices (“Who needs paprika? Salt and pepper do just fine!”).
When I found my curry powder missing, she scoffed, “That muck? Ruins your stomach.”
I locked myself in the loo, crying under the tap’s rush.
That night, I confronted James. “This can’t go on.”
“It’s just till autumn.”
“Three months! The kids are miserable, I’m losing it, and you just say *wait it out*?”
“What can I do? She’s my mum.”
“Talk to her. Explain this is *our* home.”
“You know how she’ll take it.”
“And what about me?” I snapped. “Or your kids?”
He turned away. End of discussion.
Things came to a head when Amelia and I came home late from ballet. Oliver sat red-eyed at the table while Margaret ranted to James.
“He *threw* my crystal cup! The one your father gave me!”
“I *didn’t*!” Oliver sobbed. “It slipped!”
“He’s lying! I saw him hurl it!”
“Oliver wouldn’t do that,” I said coldly.
“Oh, defend him! *My* grandson’s a saint, and I’m the liar?”
“Oliver,” James said quietly, “tell us what happened.”
Between gulps, he explained: he’d wanted tea, reached for the fancy cup, and the hot water made it crack.
“And Baba said they send kids like me to foster care,” he whispered.
I saw red. “*If you ever speak to my children like that again*,” I hissed, “*I swear—*”
“How *dare* you!” Margaret gasped.
“Enough.” James finally spoke up. “Mum, Oliver’s a good lad. And you don’t shout at kids.”
Her face fell. “*You’re* against me now?”
“No one’s against you. But we respect each other here.”
She stormed off, silent until morning.
After that, she withdrew—no more nitpicking, just quiet distance. It was almost worse.
Then, one afternoon, she approached me. “Charlotte… let’s talk.”
“Maybe I *am* too hard on them,” she admitted stiffly. “In my day, discipline came first.”
“It still matters,” I said. “But kids need love too.”
“I *do* love them,” she murmured. “I just… don’t know how to show it.”
For the first time, I saw the fear in her eyes—the dread of being useless, unwanted.
“How about this,” I offered. “We take turns cooking. And maybe… teach Amelia to knit? She’s been asking.”
Slowly, things shifted. Margaret still fussed, but less. She taught Amelia to knit, tried chess with Oliver. I bit my tongue over small things, made sure she felt needed.
James watched, amazed. “You’re brilliant, you know. Not many would’ve handled this so well.”
“She’s not the enemy,” I said. “Just scared of being alone.”
Summer wasn’t over yet. But I knew now—we’d be alright. Somehow, we’d all grown a little stronger.
